Two Short Fics About Retrospective Love
by CitronPresse
Summary: A dream and a conversation. Set Season 6. Pairing: Mark/Addison: references to Mark/Lexie and Sam/Addison.


Dancing Queen

"_See that girl, watch that scene, digging the Dancing Queen" - ABBA._ _Set post S6 crossover. Character: Mark_

One night, you dream about Addie dancing.

Your dreams are all filled with Lexie, these days. You've been blaming her for feelings she never really caused in the first place. Trying to be a father got all mixed up with the reasons you don't have a fucking clue how to be one, and Lexie was an unfair, easy target for the rage you suppressed over the years. But you can't forgive her, and your dreams go round and round in circles with why you can't and why you ought to, and it hurts like hell.

But one night, your subconscious cuts you a break and you dream about Addie dancing.

She had this way of being on the dance floor that balanced perfectly between rapture and fragility. Twirling and swaying as she sparkled a hundred times brighter than the colored lights that decorated her dress and lit up her face and her red, red hair; almost splintering, almost breaking, but smiling, staying whole, finding the magic in the rhythm of the music and the movement of her graceful, sexy body.

You could never get enough of who she was on the dance floor. And even when you wake up with a jolt of regret, you figure it's just the price you pay for a memory that's one of the few things you feel good about. Getting to see who Addison Montgomery was on the dance floor was a rare moment of grace you never want to lose.

She was beautiful. She was _so_ beautiful. You always loved to watch Addie dance.

* * *

at least you're still my day late friend

_Addison tells Mark something she neglected to ever really say. Set post Season 6 finale_.

"Lexie told Karev she loved him," Mark says, staring into the bottom of the empty scotch glass he's been turning around in his hands for the last few minutes. "I keep telling myself she didn't mean it, she was just panicking 'cause she thought he was dying, but . . ." he shrugs, as though defeated, "that's bullshit, right? Wishful thinking." He puts the glass down, stands up, retrieves the leather jacket she noticed he's taken to wearing again from the chair he slung it over and pulls it on wearily. He tries to smile as he says, "I guess women don't pick me when they can have Alex Karev, huh Addison?"

Apparently he's forgotten their most recent encounter when the boot was firmly on the other foot and he left her, naked, literally and figuratively, begging for half-hearted affection. But still, she has Sam and a chance, and he has nothing but loss right now, so she can afford to be a little generous, even a little truthful.

"Mark," she says, softly, as his hand reaches for the ornate handle of her hotel room door.

"Yeah?" He barely turns around, but he's listening.

"It's funny," she says, a little awkward laugh escaping to hide the remnant of regret bubbling in her chest. "It seems like, since we've been over, I've talked to everyone about us except, well . . . us." She pauses, hoping for a response, but there is none, so she just plows on. "I told Derek - which was wrong and ridiculous and, ugh," she shudders, nervously buying time, "just surreal! And I told Sam . . ." She swallows. "But somehow I never got around to telling you."

He turns to face her then, and raises an eyebrow.

Under his scrutiny, she runs her tongue over her lips, procrastinating for one last protective second. But she needs to say this (and she thinks he needs to hear it), and when she finally gets the words out they're clear and strong and exactly how they should be (and maybe should have been when it really mattered). "I loved you. Once, I really loved you."

She has no expectations of a reply. In fact, she thinks maybe he'll just walk out – he kind of has the right.

But he nods slowly, then quietly says, "Thank you," before reaching for the door handle again, opening the door and stepping into the hallway.

As he leaves, though, his voice lingers in the room, gentle and roughly caressing, "I loved you too." And she can't tell if the emotion she's feeling is a sense of freedom or the memory of a broken heart.


End file.
